


happiness throws a shower of sparks

by PardonMyManners



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-05 19:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PardonMyManners/pseuds/PardonMyManners
Summary: Ghost whimpers then growls softly as the knocking begins again. The sound wavers between uncertain and desperate, as if whoever stands outside his door isn’t sure how they ended up there. Disoriented and angry -it’s three AM for Christ’s sake- he stumbles across the room, unlocks the door, and yanks it open. He freezes, angry words dying on his tongue.“I d-didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Sansa Stark says through a swollen, bloody lip, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose that don’t completely hide a black eye.





	1. happiness was never mine to hold

**Author's Note:**

> A modern AU that wouldn't leave me alone. Planning three to four short chapters. Take the past abuse warning seriously, please, though this particular chapter doesn't get very detailed, future chapters may.

Jon wakes to sharp, rhythmic pounding and scrambles for his gun.

It takes falling to the floor of his studio apartment before he remembers where and when he is. Chicago. Not Iraq. He doesn’t have a gun. He hopes to never touch one again.

He can taste blood and sand in his mouth and it almost makes him gag as he swipes a hand over his face and rises into a squat. The room is cast in shadow, a cool breeze ruffling the faded curtains that’d been there when he’d moved in almost a year ago and which he hasn’t bothered to replace. Moonlight flutters along the sharp lines of his bed and across the rounded curves of his couch, glowing faintly against the screen of the second-hand TV he almost never turns on.

Ghost whimpers then growls softly as the knocking begins again. The sound wavers between uncertain and desperate, as if whoever stands outside his door isn’t sure how they ended up there. Disoriented and angry -it’s three AM for Christ’s sake- he stumbles across the room, unlocks the door, and yanks it open. He freezes, angry words dying on his tongue.

“I d-didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Sansa Stark says through a swollen, bloody lip, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose that don’t completely hide a black eye.

-

Jon hasn’t seen Sansa since her parents’ and brother’s funeral six years ago.

Ned Stark had been like a father to him and Robb a brother. All of the Stark children had been like siblings. All of them save Sansa. Sansa had been something different.

His own father had left his mother when he was a baby and then his mother had gotten breast cancer his freshman year in high school and hadn’t been able to beat it back. She’d only lasted a year. Jon had almost been relieved when she’d gone; watching her waste away had nearly broken him apart. After, he’d moved in with the Starks, living in their basement -which was nearly twice as large as the small two bedroom home he and his mother had shared. Catelyn Stark hadn’t been pleased, but Jon knew Ned had insisted, and he supposed that was the brunt of the issue. There’d been rumors around town of Mr. Stark’s concern for the beautiful Miss Snow, rumors that Jon had personally never put much stock in but figured couldn’t be too pleasant for Mrs. Stark. She had always made him feel a bit like a stray dog she could never quite trust, as if he might lash out suddenly and bite her. Still, she’d packed him a lunch every day for school, set him a place at her table for dinner every night, and crafted him his own personal Christmas stocking to hang over the fireplace.

And then, just like his mother, she was gone.

Sansa had looked frail beside their grave. Dressed in muted black, her fiery hair tucked beneath a black cap and her pale face obscured by a short black veil. Her husband, Joffrey, had been nowhere to be seen. Jon had always hated the prick; so had Robb, and he suspected her father hadn’t been too thrilled about the match either. But Sansa had always been stubborn. Genial, graceful, always popular, but stubborn as hell sometimes. She’d been a grade behind them in school and always well liked, an excellent student, and easily the prettiest girl in school.

Jon hadn’t gone to the wedding; he hadn’t been invited. Robb had been furious, Ned confused and clearly concerned, but Jon had understood. He didn’t fit into the crowd she’d worked so hard to surround herself with, the well-to-do, the wealthy and polished. He hated weddings anyway.

It didn’t help that he’d been in love with her since age twelve, possibly even before then.  

There’d been tears on her cheeks, glinting in the sunlight that bore down on them, making the summer heat almost stifling, but her face and eyes had been blank and emotionless. She’d held Rickon’s hand firmly in hers. Little Rickon who’d only just started the second grade, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he gripped his elder sister’s hand like a life line. Bran had been stoic at her side, awkward with fresh puberty, eyes tortured and fraught with uncertainty. Arya, who he’d always been closest with, had disappeared half way through the priest’s sermon, fury written plain across her face.

Jon had felt utterly frozen by grief or he might have followed after her.

He’d gotten the call while his unit made a quick stop in Bagram and then he’d hopped on the next flight out. Even three days of travel hadn’t shaken the frost loose. Ned Stark had been the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. He’d taught Jon how to fish, how to shoot a gun, how to drive a car, how to treat women with respect and how fighting should never be anyone’s first option.

And Robb, God, Robb.

Jon had been jealous of Robb nearly all his life. They’d grown up together; Jon with his brown bag lunches and Robb with shiny new Power Rangers lunch tin and home baked treats. Robb with his new bat and glove on the first day of baseball practice and Jon with a glove two sizes too big for him that his mother had found in a bin at the back of the local Goodwill. Robb with his auburn curls the girls all giggled over and his easy, confident smiles. Robb with a mother and father who adored him.

Jon had wanted to hate him at times, had even been a near thing at some of his lower points, but it was hard to hate someone you loved so goddamn much.

He hadn’t been able to speak to Sansa before she left, a gracious host at her parents’ house that had felt hollow and empty. An empty shell of what it had once been; a home.

In truth, he’d avoided her. He hadn’t known what to say to her, knew there was nothing _to_ say. He’d never known how to talk to her; he’d always been terrible at talking to women in general –Robb had always found it hilarious- but Sansa had always been particularly difficult. All he’d had to do in high school was look at her and every word he knew flew straight out of his head.

So he’d stuck close to Arya, who’d linked her arm through his, eyes dry but stormy, and she hadn’t let him go until well after sunset, long after Sansa had gone home.  

-

Her clothing is unremarkable yet clearly name brand. Dark, artfully worn jeans hug her hips and calves, a billowy green blouse complimenting her fair skin and bright hair. But there are cracks in the veneer. Her hair is tangled in its high pony tail. There are wrinkles in her shirt, and her full, pink lips are dry and chapped around the split in her lip. A pale, delicate hand trembles on the handle of her single suitcase, and her eyes are piercing even through the sunglasses that do very little to hide the truth.

“Sansa-“ he starts, sputtering out like a faulty car engine.

“Can I come in?” she asks as casually as she can, as if she hadn’t banged on his door in the middle of the night out of nowhere looking like she’d just been in a bar fight.

He steps back and waves her inside. He can practically taste her gratitude as she hurries past him as if she’s afraid something in the hall might nab her. As if she’s afraid of monsters in the dark. His apartment building is small and quaint in a decent part of town but certainly isn’t up to Sansa’s standards, he’s sure. He shuts the door and locks it again, leaving them alone in the moonlight.

“I’m sorry to show up like this,” she begins, not looking at him. She’d let go of her suitcase and her hands are twisting themselves into knots in front of her. “I should have called, I know, but Joffer-I don’t have a phone anymore and I didn’t know where else to go. Arya won’t talk to me, I-I don’t blame her, and Marge- I don’t really have friends, not anymore-“

Jon reaches out and takes her hand and she freezes instantly, the breath catching sharply in her throat. With his free hand he carefully removes her sunglasses. She flinches away from him, pressing her eyes closed and allowing two tears to slip down her cheeks. He gently takes her chin in his hand and tilts her face to the left, examining her eye and lip with clinical detachment. At least on the outside.

Her left eye is almost swollen shut; the bruising is fresh and it’s a dark blue purple. The split lip is older and already healing. It shouldn’t scar.

She’s trembling, stiff as a board, and he releases her. He knows the symptoms, the signs. He’s seen them on women before, when he’d been in the Army and many more times since joining the Chicago Fire Department. Many of them wore the truth like a shroud; the sort of shroud that made the eyes of strangers skip over them.

Maybe he _could_ find it in him to pick up a gun again, he thinks, cold fury coiling in his gut. Just once more.

“I’ve got a bag of frozen peas for your eye,” he says through gritted teeth. “Sit.”

She nods, still trembling, and orients herself on one of the three chairs circling his dining table. Its top is bare except for that morning’s mail and the half-finished coffee cup he’d forgotten to put in the sink before going to work. He flips on the light that dangles above her and she flinches as though burned. Her shoulders are tense, nearly up to her ears, and her eyes are fixed resolutely on her clenched hands on the tabletop. Ghost nudges her thigh and she either ignores him or doesn’t notice and he curls up at her feet with a long, dejected sign.

He fishes the peas out of the freezer, wraps them in a paper towel, and sits across from her, holding them out across the distance. She’s crying, quietly, motionlessly, tears a steady waterfall down her hollowed cheeks, dripping onto her clenched hands. She glances up, meeting his eyes for a split second before taking his offering.

“Hold that to your eye for at least ten minutes,” he instructs as gently as he can through the anger that only builds the more he looks at her. Gone is the girl he remembers. The bright, confident girl with a lovely, perfect smile and an easy grace. It breaks his heart and he hadn’t been sure he had enough heart left _to_ break.

“I’ll make up the couch,” he says into the silence that feels like a living thing sitting between them.

She snatches his hand as he passes her and her fingers are surprisingly strong. “Thank you,” she says so quietly he almost doesn’t hear. She doesn’t look up. “Thank you, Jon.”

-

She’s still asleep when he wakes the next morning, dressed in his uniform with a coffee cup in hand, feeling utterly out of his depth as he stares down at her. She’s so small. Like a child, curled in on herself under a blanket that he has no idea came to be in his possession. It’s gray and soft, perfect for bundling. Maybe Ygritte, he thinks, but the thought burns, as it always does, so he pushes it aside.

Sansa’s small hands are tucked up under her cheek, her lips slightly parted, and her hair in wild disarray, sleeping the sleep of the dead. The sunlight streams through the bare curtains, painting her in shades of gold. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, well, at least the one he can see. Her swollen eye is buried in one well-worn couch cushion. She’s thin, far too thin, but she’s still beautiful. She’s always been achingly pretty.

He shakes his head and looks away.

He needs to buy new curtains.

Eventually, he decides not to wake her. She hadn’t said another word after he’d made her a bed on the couch, frozen pea bag pressed to her eye as instructed. She’d fallen asleep quickly, but Jon hadn’t been nearly so lucky, listening to the sound of her soft breathing in the darkness, seething with fury.

He writes her a note, telling her he’ll be home at six and that she’s welcome to anything in the fridge or cupboards. Ghost lifts his head as Jon opens the door to leave. He’d spent the night sleeping next to the sofa, standing guard.

“Good boy,” Jon murmurs and locks the door behind him.

She’s asleep again when he comes home and he’s tempted to check her pulse. Going cold with worry, he wonders if maybe she’d had a concussion. But her eyes flutter open as he nears and she offers him a sleepy half smile as she pushes herself into sitting position. She’d changed into a loose t-shirt and sweatpants at some point, and her thin arms tremble. Her hair is clean and straight as it hangs loose about her shoulders. There’s a fading bruise on one bicep and another along her collar bone as her shirt dips off one shoulder and bile rises in his throat. He clenches his fists and squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment, trying to will the fury away. When he opens them again she is studying his face. The bruising around her eyes is even more livid in the sunlight, but the swelling _has_ gone down. He’ll have her ice it again. 

“Pizza?” he asks, faltering under her scrutiny. Another small smile, a hint of the girl he’d known peeking from out behind the broken women in front of him.

“Pizza.”

-

She spends a month on his couch, hardly leaving her warm cocoon, and he leaves her in peace. He requests evenings off and his Chief grumbles and moans, but Jon is the best firefighter on the squad and he begrudgingly agrees.

Most nights he falls asleep to the sound of her gentle, broken crying, his entire body aching to hold her. He knows what it means to fight demons alone in the dark.

He doesn’t ask her questions, doesn’t press her for information, and she doesn’t offer any. Jon has always preferred silence, but hers is deafening, slowly tearing him apart from the inside out.

He makes enough food for the both of them in the evenings, or picks something up on the way home, and ensures there is bread and meat and cheese for her to make sandwiches or something for lunch. She asks him for nothing and she barely eats.  It’s like living with a ghost and he can hardly stand to look at her most nights, but he understands, down to the marrow of his bones he understands. He knows what it is to be broken and have to remake yourself one day, one hour, one minute at a time.

The shift comes eventually.

His apartment is suddenly spotless, his clothes folded and put away, and she has dinner ready when he gets home every night. It quickly drives him insane; he isn’t used to being taken care of and he has a feeling that she isn’t either. He isn’t willing to acknowledge that _he’d_ like to take care of her. Not yet.  

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” he says gruffly one night, gesturing to his apartment after a particularly grueling shift. He is certain his tiny apartment is the shittiest place she’s ever stayed in her life. He feels lower than low when he sees her face fall.

“I don’t mind,” she says quietly, taking his dish and placing it in the sink. She’d made lasagna and it’s possibly the best he’s ever had.

He isn’t good at this. Never has been. Ygritte had found it hilarious.

He sighs, glancing around the room, noticing that his bed is made, the TV dusted, and the curtains are pulled back. The curtains he keeps meaning to replace. He bites his lip.

“I was thinking,” he says, clearing his throat, feeling foolish as she turns to look at him. The bruising around her eye is nearly gone, just a hint of yellow around the edges. The cut at her lip is sealed over but still healing; mouth wounds take forever to fully heal. “I mean, I need to run by Target, pick up a few things. Would you like to come?”

Her smile, still unsure, still fragile, lights him up from the inside out.

-

She picks bright yellow curtains. Jon hadn’t been sure about the color choice, yellow isn’t his favorite, but it does wonders to brighten the room. He knows she must be dying of boredom so he orders the basic cable package and she seems stunned by his generosity and it makes his chest hurt. They sit side by side and watch movies most nights, the silence heavy but also warm and comfortable. It quickly becomes Jon's favorite part of the day; sitting with her, her legs tucked up under her, dressed in loose fitting PJs, a half smile on her face. He could watch her for hours.

Two weeks later she gets a part-time job at the little coffee shop down the street and she seems so happy that Jon doesn’t dare object. It doesn’t stop him from having his buddy Tormund, who’s a cop, do a background check on the place and its owner.

Soon after she stops crying herself to sleep every night and begins to put on a little weight and Jon realizes he’d be willing to suffer a great deal of pain and discomfort just to make her happy.

Soon, his apartment begins to change. Just little things, like decorative pillows for his couch –which is also still her bed- or a new green and yellow shower curtain and matching bath mats. He won’t let her pay rent or utilities, and she’d clearly taken that as a challenge. There’s more food in the fridge and plates in his cupboards. He clears out the junk in his second closet and her clothes start to multiply, pretty shirts and dresses she picks up from the second hand shop two blocks down.  

Jon had lived there a year but it takes Sansa living on his couch for five months to finally make it feel like a home.

He wonders one night, as he brushes his teeth with a brand new tooth brush she’d picked up for him, whether he should be concerned. Probably, but he’s too busy enjoying her presence, quiet and gentle, to really be willing to give it too much thought.

-

Despite living in the same house for three years, Jon hadn't actually spent much time with Sansa. Robb and Jon had had baseball and then football, and Sansa had had dance and academic activities, not to mention a very active social life -something Jon definitely lacked- but there are several bright moments that have stuck with him through the years.

Sansa perched on the kitchen island in a pair of short pink stripe shorts and a lose tank top, a spoon in her mouth as she laughs at something Arya says to Bran. The tank top is one of his, though he's sure she doesn't know it. Sure she'd just stolen it from a clean hamper thinking it must be Robb's, but its so unintentionally intimate that he has to back out of the room altogether, but the image of her in his shirt is burned into his mind.

Sansa curled up on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket, reading a book as he and Robb throw a football around in the yard. He's careful not to stare too much, he's sure Robb already suspects he has less than brotherly feelings toward her, but her presence is like a flash of light at the corner of his eye.

Sansa laughing wildly as she leaps into the lake after he and Robb, barely sixteen and the sort of beautiful that makes all the boys heads' turn. Jon wants to punch them all in the face.

Sansa coming home late from a party a week before he graduates, dressed in a short denim skirt and a skin tight red top with black heels, her makeup is perfect and her hair curled and flowing around her bare shoulders as he hides in the shadows of the kitchen, trying not to alert her to his presence. She turns and stares at herself in the mirror for a long while, face placid and eyes tortured, before heading up the stairs. He almost calls out to her, but he's still too much a coward.

All of these memories haunt him now, rising from the recesses of his heart where he'd long buried them.

-

Eventually he has to go back to working forty-eight hour shifts. Sansa’s smile is bright and understanding when he tells her, but something flashes in her eyes that worries him a little.

“You’ll be alright?” he asks, and she swats him on the arm. He’s taken to cataloging every touch. It’s a good sign. A sign of healing. Every single one of them sends a wave of warmth through him that he finds vaguely terrifying.

He’s treading dangerous waters. The last thing she needs is her older brother’s best friend mooning after her. Sansa needs safety and comfort, the kind that doesn’t come with strings attached, and Jon will give that to her even if it kills him.

“Of course, don’t worry about me. I’ll leave leftovers in the fridge for you.”

When he comes home two nights later, he glances at the couch, expecting to see the familiar shock of her hair on the pillow, and stops short when he doesn’t. Panic fills him, a thousand terrible possibilities racing through his head. A soft feminine sigh breaks through the fog and jolts him back to himself.

Sansa’s face gleams in the dark, reflecting the bare light over the kitchen sink she must have left on for him. His gut clenches and he swallows, hard. She’s curled up on the side of his bed that’s been empty since Ygritte died, and they look enough alike that it’s like a bullet in his chest. Ghost, sleeping across Sansa’s feet, perks up, eyes bright and assessing in the darkness. He seems to be daring Jon to disturb her.

Because he’s weak and because he’s missed her more than he’ll ever be willing to admit, he changes into a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt and climbs into bed beside her. He feels her stir, catches the flash of her eyes in the dark and freezes, wondering if he should have stayed above the covers in a sudden panic, but she reaches for him. Her hand finds the side of his face, smoothing over the three day stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave, and settles on his shoulder. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare _breathe_ and she uses him to pull herself closer, nestling her head under his chin. She inhales deeply and sighs, her breath warm and moist on his throat and it’s like drowning as her scent and the heat of her body slam into him.

“I’m so glad your home,” she whispers into his chest and he melts into her. He can’t help it. Can’t stop himself from lifting his arms and wrapping them around her, burying his face in her hair that smells like sunshine and strawberries.

“Me too.”


	2. I could die a happy man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s smiles, the real ones, always start in her eyes. This one is no different. “Why, Jon Snow, are you asking me on a date?”
> 
> It’s ridiculous that this makes him blush, but it does, it definitely does. He’s holding flowers out to her in an awkward half bow, still dressed in his uniform, and he can tell she’s enjoying his embarrassment. He doesn’t mind looking stupid, not if it makes her smile like that.
> 
> “Uh, yes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toooot tooooooot, smut is ahead!  
> Uh, you guys are like... AMAZING! The reviews for this blew me away. So humbling. You're all wonderful.  
> Sixteen year old me was so close to turning part of this into a song fic; you're welcome for sparing you.  
> Come find me on tumblr sometime if you want at pardonmymannerssir, I like to fangirl.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> WARNING: Some talk of past abuse and rape in this one.

Sansa takes to sleeping in his bed every night, curled into his side with her hand pressed against his chest, but little else changes.

No, everything is the same despite Jon’s entire world turning upside down.

Mornings are always a bit awkward, as he angles her ass away from his crotch, having succumbed to the weakness of his desires in his sleep. She’s so soft and warm and sweet that it’s impossible to keep his body from reacting to hers, and some nights he can’t sleep, trying to master the animal inside him that’s dying to taste her, touch her, _anything_.

He doesn’t want to frighten her. Would rather _die_ than scare her or make her uncomfortable. So he drinks more coffee and accepts the ribbing the guys give him at work for his new ‘girl’ keeping him up at night. It would be much worse if they knew the truth, the bastards.

He is constantly reminding himself not to stare at her, but honest to God he can’t help it. She’s so fucking pretty it might kill him as she wanders barefoot through his apartment in a simple summer dress, humming to herself as she sweeps. Her hair is tied back into a haphazard tail, pieces escaping and sticking to the damp curves of her neck. He’d like to kiss her there, where the graceful arch of her neck meets her slender shoulder, and taste the salt of her sweat, follow a trail down- he squeezes his eyes shut, sinking lower into the couch, and drives the images away before they have a chance to overwhelm him.

It’s nearly summer in the city and the humidity is already bordering on insufferable.

“Let’s go to the pier,” he says before consciously deciding to speak. He needs to get out of the apartment before he combusts. She turns, wiping her hand across her brow and beams at him, making his knees turn to jelly.

“Okay, let me get my shoes.”

Navy Pier is a tourist trap but Sansa, who has seen very little of the city despite living with him for half a year, is clearly thrilled. She drags him to almost every both and onto every ride. He can’t even feign reluctance, content to follow her wherever she might lead him and trying to ignore the implications of the sentiment. He’s never seen her so happy. There’s new life in her eyes and her skin glows in the carnival lights. He can’t take his eyes off her as she leads him by the hand.

The sun is setting when they board the Ferris wheel and he’s getting hungry but thinks he’d probably be willing to starve if it meant a few more moments in her presence. Fuck, he’s in so deep he can’t even see the surface anymore.

She’s quiet as the ride begins to move. She’d been rather chatty all afternoon, more so than she had been since she’d shown up at his door what feels like a lifetime ago, but there’s a contemplative look on her face now as they sway above the glittering waters of the bay. The setting sun sets her hair on fire and not even the cheesiness of the sentiment can ruin the reality of it. His chest _burns_ looking at her and he has to clench his hands on his knees to stop himself from reaching out and doing something stupid like tucking fluttering strands of hair behind her ear, or taking her small hand in his, or drawing her to his side where he can try and shield her from all the world-

She catches his eye and he blushes, but she smiles and it’s a soft, intimate thing that does all sorts of things to his stomach. He has to look away, feeling very much like teenage-Jon as opposed to lived-through-a-war-and-risks-his-life-at-least-once-a-week-Jon.

The ride stops and they dangle there, caught in amber and fire above the water, the city alive and ever moving beyond their warm little bubble.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she says at last, a cool breeze nearly snatching the words away from him.

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s been fun-“

She silences him with hand on his and he turns to find she’s crying, tears catching the light and gleaming brightly. “No, Jon. Thank you, for _everything_. I don’t-I can’t express how much it means to me.”

He reaches out and grips the handle of their little cart, trying to master his frenzied emotions. He wants to kiss her so badly in that moment it’s a physical pain.

“Please,” he half begs. “Don’t. I wish-I would do anything-If I could I would-” he can’t find the right words to tell her he’d set the world on fire to punish everyone who’s ever hurt her.

She chuckles a little, tears still dancing in her eyes, and he has to huff out a laugh.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never known the right thing to say, but you know that,” he gives a self-deprecating laugh, embarrassed. She must remember how awkward he was in high school, how he’d stuttered and stumbled every time she’d spoken to him or even looked his way.

He’s surprised to see her face fall and she looks ashamed as she turns to stare out across the water blindly.

“You were always wonderful, Jon. Always kind and thoughtful, helping Robb get out of trouble or babysitting Rickon and Bran when the rest of us were too busy,” her gaze darts back to his, an almost endless sea of regret clear in her eyes. “You’ve always been the best of us, I was just too stupid to see it. I’ve always been so goddamn _stupid._ ”

“Sansa, you’re not stupid-” he reaches for her hand, resting near his on the restraining bar, but she slides it away and she won’t meet his eye.

“Yes I am Jon, I am so, _so_ stupid.” She draws in a trembling breath, blinking back tears as the breeze tosses their hair. “Joffrey hit me the first time on our wedding night,” she says, voice hard and brittle like shards of glass, “but the worst part is, he was terrible to me long before that. It’s easier to see now, all the subtle ways he tore me down, but I knew it then too. The things he wanted me to do... The way he spoke to me in front of his friends when no adults were around…it was all there, and I just ignored them. Some of it was shame, having to admit that our marriage was a mistake, but most of it was weakness and stupidity. I kept thinking it would get better… that _I_ would get better, or be better somehow so he would stop hurting me… but it only ever got worse.”

Jon’s heart is loud in his ears, a furious terrible roar. He’s only felt this way once before in his life; when he’d found Ygritte’s body inside a burning building, unresponsive and lifeless.

It’s like a dam has been broken and Sansa can’t seem to stop herself, the horrible truth spilling from her lips, tearing at his soul. _He_ had known something was wrong with Joffrey. He’d heard rumors about the way he liked to talk to and treat girls and he’d ignored them. They had all ignored them. God, he’d been such a coward.

“T-The night I came to your door, we’d flown to LA for some charity ball and we met a m-man, some prospective business partner,” tears well in her eyes at the memory and slip down her colorless cheeks. “His name is Ramsey Bolton, and he came to our hotel room after the party. Joffrey made me… he made me _do_ things,” her voice hitches and she’s breathing hard, “A-And when I tried to stop it he let Ramsey hurt me… he hurt me so much I thought I would die. I _wanted_ to die, but I couldn’t… I thought of Arya, of Robb, and mom and dad, a-and when they finally left me alone to go get drunk at the hotel bar I-I ran. I drew out enough money for a plane ticket and I ran.” She looks up and she’s trembling so hard the cart is swaying. “I ran to you because… I used to think of you, Jon. I thought of you all the time really. The way you’d once looked at me before I understood what it meant and how you were always so kind to me and I’ve never regretted anything as much as I regret not being with you when I had the chance.”

His heart is a tattered ruin in his chest, his mind a mess of violence, fury, and tenderness. He chooses tenderness as he reaches for her, taking her face in both his hands and brushing the tears away, drawing her toward him till her forehead touches his. He chooses tenderness for her, because its what she needs from him in that moment, but someday... someday he might choose violence.

“Sansa…” he murmurs. There are no words for how sorry he is, for how much her pain stabs through him like a physical wound, throbbing in his gut, making him sick. “Sansa, I would do anything for you,” he says at last, distantly aware the ride has started moving again. “Anything.”

She draws in a harsh breath that seems to rattle through her and into him and something delicate and fragile blooms between them. “Then kiss me, Jon, _please_ kiss me.”

He’s never been more willing to fulfill a request.

He catches her mouth with his, leashing his turbulent emotions and brushing her lips gently, once, twice, before sinking into the temptation of her warmth. She sighs and melts into him, the tension leaving her in physical waves as she presses her hands to his where they hold her gently prisoner, sliding shyly down his arms and gripping his shoulders. She tastes like home, like humid summers and frozen winters, like Christmas mornings with everyone laughing and smiling, like cool summer nights when the fireflies first come out and the moon is full. Kissing her makes him feel absolved. Absolved from the horror of a war he’d been stupid to fight and of the loss of the only other woman he’s ever loved or cared for.

He pulls away before he loses all control and she studies him in the breathless aftermath, flushed pink, lips moist and slightly swollen. Her slow smile, like warm summer honey, draws an answering one from him and then they’re both chuckling at the improbability of it all.

They exit the Ferris wheel hand in hand and it feels like being reborn. 

-

More memories float to the surface, unbidden.

Sansa and Arya fighting over the best blanket for movie night, dissolving into laughter and a one sided wrestling match. Sansa laughing so hard she’s crying as Arya pins her down with a triumphant shout before Robb tackles her to the ground.

Sansa baking a friend a cake in the kitchen his senior year, covered in flour and chocolate, a mixing bowl balanced on her hip as she frowns over a cook book. There’s a smear of chocolate near the corner of her mouth and Jon has to leave the room, the _house_ actually, before he does something stupid like lick it away.

Sansa furious with Arya over something he doesn’t remember, both of them shouting, her face alive with fury, cheeks bright and eyes flashing.

Robb mussing her hair and her indignant squeak. They all laugh when she dumps her glass of ice water over his head and laugh harder as he chases her around the yard as she squeals.

Thirteen year old Sansa taking his hand at his mother’s funeral, her small fingers, tight on his, the only thing grounding him to reality as part of his heart is lowered forever into the cold, frozen ground.

-

Later that night they assess each other in the darkness of his apartment, laying side by side in his bed, both ragged shades of the children they’d been. They are face to face, noses inches apart. Her breath is sweet and gentle, her lips a constant temptation, but her eyes hold him fast, bright as polished silver in the dark. They’d eaten a quiet dinner on the pier, not uncomfortable, exactly, just new and frail, a fresh brightness between them that could be snuffed out with a single wrong word, a single look, a clumsy touch.  

But cocooned in darkness, the insecurities and uncertainties dissolve into nothing. To Jon, it seems like they are the only two people left in all the world.

“I’ll kill him,” he says at last, a secret in the dark, one he means with every fiber of his being. He’s killed people before, more than he’d ever like to think of, more than he’d ever like to admit to her, and he’d found no joy in it, only darkness and self-loathing, but this… this he is sure he’d enjoy. He knows how to hurt people, he could make it last. “I’ll kill them both.”

Steel, sharp and deadly, flashes in her eyes and her pupils dilate and her breathing grows ragged. Her fingers clench, sharp as daggers into his shoulders.

“No, Jon,” she breathes, tilting toward him like a tower crumbling. “No… if he ever touches me again. _I_ will kill him.”

He groans, electricity clawing through his veins, and kisses her the way he’s dreamed of kissing her nearly half his life; first as a boy with almost no experience and then as a broken, desperate man with little to offer but himself and whatever comfort he can provide.

There _is_ comfort in the way she draws herself to him, the way she presses her hands into his hair, but there is also _want_ , a desperate, almost mindless desire, as if he’s not the only one who’s dreamed of something more. He hadn’t realized how alone he was, how cold he’d become, until Sansa had shown up at his door.

She tugs on his hair and he nips at her full lower lip with a growl he can’t suppress and suddenly it’s a mess of limbs and hands and the rough melody of their irregular breathing. She so damn sweet he can’t taste her enough, can’t touch her enough, and it feels like he’ll never be close enough to her. It’s a kind of madness, kissing Sansa Stark, like death by slow, delicious degrees.

He reaches for her breast, close to being consumed with need, and she stiffens a little, breath catching sharply in her throat, and he swallows, reigning himself in, and moves his hand away. He gentles their kiss, guides her back from the precipice, and tries to tell her with lips and hands that he’ll never hurt her. Never take from her anything she isn’t willing to give.   

Slowly. He has to go slowly.

He smooths down her hair and kisses her forehead, each eye, and the tip of her nose. He can feel her heart racing against his chest and he draws her to him.

“Shh,” he murmurs, almost mindlessly, “I’ve got you.”

She wraps her arms around him and squeezes him tight, pressing tentative kisses along his jaw and throat. They fall asleep like that, entangled and warm with the promise of the future.

-

He wakes to her lips on his and it’s easily the sweetest thing he’s ever experienced, he keeps his eyes closed, wanting to make the moment last. She’s all warmth and softness as his hand smooths down the curve of her side, up the ridges of her spine, and tangles in the fragrant fall of her hair.  It’s like a baptism, caught in dazzling sunlight, washing away the darkness of the night before and turning it into something sweet. She smiles against his mouth and he responds in kind, chuckling in the back of his throat. God, he’s never felt like this before.

He expects the specter of Ygritte to diminish his fledgling joy, to remind him of all he’s lost, instead he only feels an endless well of warmth and… encouragement. She would have wanted him to be happy, would have wanted him to find joy and comfort where he could. 

“You have to go to work,” Sansa reminds him, trailing fire along his jaw with the moist heat of her parted lips, “and so do I.” He shivers, fingers digging into her hip. He’s already painfully hard beneath the blankets.

He groans, half in want and half in reluctance. “I’ll call in,” he says, voice rough with sleep, and cracks an eye open only to be half blinded by the sun gleaming offer her tousled hair. She nips at his chin.

“I happen to know you don’t have any more time off,” she tells him, pulling back and stealing his breath away with a brilliant, unabashed smile that holds so much pure joy in it he can hardly breathe. He’s certain no one has ever looked at him the way Sansa is looking at him now, as if the sun rises and sets with him. Her t-shirt is slipping down one shoulder, revealing the curve of one pert breast and the sunlight has turned her skin into honey and cream, he’d do anything to taste her, touch her, anything to make her moan and whimper-

“You’re killing me,” he tells her honestly, his hands spanning her slight waist and he rubs his thumbs along the tantalizing strip of bare skin above her pajama pants, watching as her eyes darken and she bites her lip. “I hope you know that.”

She rubs her nose along the side of his and steals another quick kiss before rolling out of his grasp with a devious laugh. “The sooner you leave the sooner you can come home,” she says in an almost sing-song, bouncing out of bed, and gliding into the kitchen to get coffee started. Jon sits up, content to watch her, but she gives him a meaningful look and he dutifully gets up and heads for the shower.

She’s dressed when he gets out of the shower, towel drying his hair, still shirtless. A calculated move on his part that is entirely worth any sense of embarrassment he might have had as Sansa stops mid stir, hand hovering over her coffee cup, and stares at him with wide eyes. He’d carefully avoided going shirtless since she’d taken up residence on his couch and doubly so when she’d crept into his bed. He’s thinking now that that might have been a mistake.

She reads his expression and laughs, color rising high in her cheeks.

“You’re such a tease, Jon Snow,” she says and it’s his turn to blush. She steps forward, and slides a tentative hand down his chest and there’s no suppressing the shiver of pleasure that sweeps over him. “I like it…” she whispers, eyes half lidded and Jon drops his towel and sweeps her into a deep kiss.

He makes it to work… eventually. 

-

Sansa’s smiles, the real ones, always start in her eyes. This one is no different. “Why, Jon Snow, are you asking me on a date?”

It’s ridiculous that this makes him blush, but it does, it definitely does. He’s holding flowers out to her in an awkward half bow, still dressed in his uniform, and he can tell she’s enjoying his embarrassment. He doesn’t mind looking stupid, not if it makes her smile like that.

“Uh, yes?”

She laughs and takes pity on him, sweeping up the flowers he’d bought at the corner store near the station –the guys had given him _a lot_ of shit about it too- and pressing her face into them, inhaling deeply.

“Well, in _that_ case, yes,” she tells him, that devious twinkle back in her eyes. It’s contagious, her playfulness, and he tries to catch her in his arms, but she dances away.

“No, nope! You’ll only distract me and I need to get ready. I have a _date_ , after all.”

He huffs and it only makes her laugh again.

Sansa snatches something out of her closet and disappears into the bathroom, flowers still in hand and bare feet flashing on the faded linoleum. Jon pulls himself together and quickly changes into his best pair of jeans, shoving his feet into his favorite black boots, and tugs a faded V-neck t-shirt over his head, one that Tormund always gave him shit for. Tormund thought wearing a shirt without a half-naked woman or some obscure beer company on it was dressing up so Jon usually ignored his fashion advice.

Jon tends to keep his hair long, partially out of laziness, and partially because Ygritte had once told him it made him look dashing, and he runs a quick comb through the curls with a bit of product. He considers shaving, studying his reflection in the mirror over his dresser, and decides against it just as Sansa exits the bathroom. His heart nearly stops, as he watches her move toward him through the mirror.

She’s wearing a vintage looking red dress that presses her breasts upward enticingly, and it hugs her waist and flares out prettily at her hips to create a full skirt effect. She’s still barefoot, but her long legs gleam in the yellow bathroom light, the dress swaying as she walks with a natural grace that’d hypnotized him as a teenager and is no less mesmerizing as a man. She’s left her hair down mostly, tying back the top half into something messy and casual that makes him want to run his fingers through it. There’s a bit of makeup around her eyes and her lips gleam with something, maybe lip gloss –Jon is hardly an expert with it comes to cosmetics- but she looks wonderful and that’s really all that matters.

She bites her lip again, studying him through the mirror in turn, and her eyes tell him she likes what she sees, which does all kinds of ridiculous things to his stomach. She giggles and wraps her arms around him, pressing her forehead to his back.

“This is crazy,” she murmurs, warming a spot on his spine through his shirt and he turns to pull her to him. Christ, she smells like heaven and feels like sin.

“Yeah, insane.” He agrees and she pulls back to study his face. “But I don’t mind if you don’t.”

She shakes her head and bites her lip, “No, I don’t think I mind at all.”

-

Sansa moans loudly as she takes an impressive bite of chocolate cheesecake and Jon chuckles, trying to ignore how the sound plays havoc with the more carnally focused parts of his brain.  

“Good?”

Sansa only moans again around a mouth full of cake. Jon grabs a bite for himself, well aware of how great Nettie’s cheesecake is –best in Chicago, in his humble opinion- but nearly moans himself as flavor explodes on his tongue. Then he nearly moans for an entirely _different_ reason as Sansa dips her finger into a bit of chocolate and sucks it _thoroughly_ off her finger.

She feels his stare and opens her eyes with a smirk, slowly sliding her finger out of her mouth. Jon has to grip the edge of the table for support.

“Killing me,” he murmurs, making her giggle, “You’re definitely trying to kill me.”

She hums at him and brushes her foot along his calf beneath the checkered table cloth. Jon reaches down and grabs her ankle gently, startling her a little, and props her foot on his knee. Maintaining eye contact, he slides his hand along the smooth curve of her calf and up the back of her knee. He feels her tremble and watches with deeps satisfaction as her eyelashes flutter and she swallows thickly.

“Anything else dears?” Nettie asks, appearing at the side of their table and nearly making Jon jump out of his skin. There’s a knowing look in her wise eyes as Jon’s knees slam up against the table and Sansa’s foot slides to the floor.

Sansa laughs brightly, but her cheeks are nearly as red as her dress.

Jon clears his throat, “Uh, no, I uh, think we’re ready for our check.”

Nettie puts a wrinkled hand on one wide hip and gives him a stern scowl. “You know very well you don’t pay when you eat here, Jon Snow. I wouldn’t have a restaurant if it wasn’t for you and you insult me by asking.”

Jon rubs at the back of his neck, embarrassed, but there’s a fond warmth in Sansa’s eyes that tempers his pride.

“I-uh, I’m sorry?”

“Damn right you are,” Nettie says, but gives him a wink and a smile to let him know he’s forgiven.

Moments later they step into the humid night air and Sansa takes his hand. It’s ridiculous how such a simple thing can make his heart race.

“That was delicious,” she tells him with a satisfied sigh. “Now where?”

Jon considers for a moment, glancing about him for inspiration.

“We could… walk around the lake a bit, there’s a pretty path around the block,” he feels stupid, not thinking past dinner, but she gives him a knowing and affectionate look.

“Sounds perfect to me,” she says and leans into his side.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks, tossing aside all pretense, and wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head for good measure.

They’re halfway down the street when Sansa stops and drifts toward the open door of a little country bar. Music and the smell of cigarettes and beer wafts out onto the sidewalk. “I love this song!” she tells him with a backward glance and a small smile, “I haven’t heard it in years.”  There’s a wistful, sad sot of longing in her voice that brings him quickly to her side. She wraps her arms around herself and sways a little as a country song he vaguely recognizes -country isn't really his thing- plays.

Jon girds his metaphorical loins, takes her hand, and pulls her inside.

“Jon, what-”

He quickly positions them out on the dance floor, attempting to remember the steps Ygritte had barely managed to teach him the few times they’d gone dancing -and he'd definitely been drunk- and pulls her into his arms.

Such pure joy is glittering in her eyes when he finally dares to look at her that he falters, feeling foolish. “I’m a terrible dancer,” he warns.

Her smile is blinding, buoying his wavering confidence as he eyes the couples around them. “Don’t worry, I’ll lead.”

And she does, guiding him through the steps as she sings along in a clear, bell like voice that warms him to his toes. He’s certain he’ll never forget the way she looks right now; spinning away from him in a twirl of crimson skirts, hair fanning out around her, and the promise of a brighter future in her smile.

The song fades into something slower and the lights on the dance floor dim as the couples either drift into the bar or draw closer together. Jon clears his throat and, with as much confidence as he can muster, drags Sansa up against his chest. She smiles knowingly and reaches up, latching her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder, breath warm on his neck. He smooths his hands down her back, overwhelmed by her suddenly, by the intensity of his feelings for her, and settles his hands on her hips. He wonders absently what Robb would think of them, and chuckles at the certainty he would have _hated_ it… before eventually coming around.

“What?” Sansa asks, pulling away just enough to look at him.

He shakes his head feeling foolish, but her eyes implore him so he says, “Just thinking of Robb, what he would have said about me and you… you know, uh-”

“Jon,” she says, gaze lowering, darting away to look out across the dance floor. “I… this isn’t some kind of… rebound for me. This isn’t what I wanted o-or expected coming to you the way I did… but,” she inhales deeply and forces her eyes back to his. “But whatever this is between us… it’s real… maybe the _only_ real thing in my fucked up life. A-And I don’t know how _you_ feel but-”

Jon shakes his head, heart in his throat, “Sansa, I’ve been half in love with you since I was twelve years old, you know that, don’t you?”

Tears well and she bites down a smile and nods. “Yes… yes I do know that. I don’t deserve it, I don’t-“

He silences her with a kiss, swaying with her on the dance floor, holding her safe in his arms. She pulls away, but doesn’t go far, pressing her forehead to his.

“Take me home, Jon.”

-

They’re both laughing as Sansa drags him into the apartment, stumbling as she fuses her lips to his and Jon only barely manages to catch them on the edge of the table.

He kicks the door shut behind them and, on impulse, lifts her off her feet and sets her on the tabletop, smoothing his hands up her legs and pressing his tongue past her parted lips. She squeaks and then sighs into his mouth as he settles between her thighs. He can feel the warmth of her through his jeans and he can’t help but press the growing length of his dick against her in a languid grind.

Sansa moans and her head falls back, the long line of her throat exposed to his eager lips. Her skin is salty and sweet on his tongue as he follows the line of one tendon and then bites at her pulse point, sending a shockwave of sensation down her body that reverberates through him. She clutches at him desperately, and he knows she’s inexperienced, that she’s unsure and insecure. That there are demons and devils lingering in the shadows of her heart, just like his. So he forces himself to slow, to pull back and take her face in his hands, waiting for her hazy eyes to focus on his.

He doesn’t want her to be afraid.

“Nothing you don’t want, Sansa,” he tells her. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop, no matter what. I swear. Do you trust me?”

She’s teary eyed again but she nods and drags him back to her, answering with a kiss, with the slide of her tongue into his mouth, and the arch of her back as he presses into her like a man in search of air.

The world goes hazy on him. Everything takes on a dream like quality as he helps her out of her dress. Tracing each new patch of skin with a reverence that he can't seem to help as he tugs the zipper down, and she’s trembling and whimpering between his hands, a living flame as he palms her breasts and tugs gently at her nipples. She makes him feel weak, like he should kneel at her feet and kiss the ground she walks on… but strong too, like he could take on the world so long as she’s with him. It’s heady and intoxicating and he’s as lost as she is when they make it to the bed, half falling into the sheets, laughing and smiling... then moaning and sighing.

She takes her time exploring him. Tracing his scars and kissing the ones she finds. She uses mouth and hands, sweetly bold and innocent until he has to drag her up and kiss her before she undoes him completely. When he finally – _finally-_ slips a hand between her legs and feels the damp heat there he moans into her mouth.

“Trust me?” he asks, voice an utter ruin. He can see the uncertainty in her eyes as he explores her folds with gentle fingers.

“Yes, Jon, I trust you,” she murmurs, clutching his shoulders, and Jon slowly slides first one then two fingers inside her, going slack jawed as her eyes roll back and she arches on a keening moan. He groans in response, head falling to her shoulder as he tries to reign himself in, fucking her gently with his hand as she writhes against him, feet tangling in the sheets.

He’s nearly mad with desire when she comes around his fingers, her cunt fluttering and clenching and he could swear he’s dying as she pants his name with desperate little mewls. He whispers all kinds of filthy nonsense into her ear as she rides her orgasm and holds onto him so hard he’s certain he'll have little half moon bruises on his back and shoulders.

She comes back to herself slowly, eyelids fluttering as he draws his fingers from her, making her tremble.

"Okay?" he asks and her smile is radiant.

"More than okay," she whispers back, and he groans in surprise and acute pleasure as she grabs his dick and pumps once, twice, three times experimentally.

"Sansa," he moans, arching helplessly into her touch, "We don't- _you_ don't."

"Shhh," she says against his lips. "Trust me."

She presses him onto his back and straddles his hips. She's framed in moonlight and the warmth of the kitchen light; swathed in silver and gold, and she's the loveliest thing he's ever seen, flushed with her orgasm, hair a mess, trembling as she settles and slowly begins to lower herself onto him. Jon hisses as the wet heat of her draws him to the brink of madness, but he forces his eyes open, watching through his lashes as she bites her lip and arches. Watches as his dick disappears inside her slow inch by inch, whispering her name like a benediction; or a plea for mercy, maybe. When he's filled her completely she falls to his chest, trembling, and he draws her close.

"Tell me, Jon," she begs as he holds himself utterly still, using every ounce of his self control. God, she's so tight and wet, so fucking perfect. "Tell me."

"I love you, Sansa," he says, nudging her face to his, and kisses her with everything he wishes he knew how to say. Every stupid romantic thing she deserves to hear and which he's completely incapable of articulating.

She moves against him, unpracticed, but eager, driven by sensation. Jon catches her hips and helps her find her rhythm. She's a fast learner, and soon he's utterly at her mercy. He's not going to last long. He wants to make her come again, feel her tighten around him, but it's been too long and he's wanted her so much...he can feel his hold slipping with every grinding roll of her hips.

"Sansa," he grounds out, clutching at her like a dying man, "I won't last, I-"

She kisses him into silence and it's sloppy and filthy and she's so perfect- "Come for me, Jon, _please_ , come for me."

That's all it takes.

Jon grabs her hips, driving into her _hard_ as the tension in his balls tightens and coils in on itself before it bursts in a shower of sparks and he's all but chanting her name.

She's kissing his chest and running a hand through his hair as he comes down, breathing hard, certain he's had a heart attack. When he can move, he helps her roll to his side and draws her in close.

"Okay?" he asks as their breathing slows, smoothing her hair away from her damp face.

She hums in sleepy contentment, snuggling into his chest. "Perfect," she tells him, echoing his thoughts, and presses another kiss where his heartbeat has begun to steady. Jon doesn't think he's ever felt so content... so _right_ in his life. He squeezes her tightly and, before he knows it, he drifts to sleep.

-

Jon has a nightmare that night for the first time since Sansa came back into his life. Gunfire rains down, buildings explode in the distance, and there are screams tearing through the night. A child cries, wailing like the world is ending, and Jon thinks it is. Wishes it _would_. There’s blood on his hands, so much blood on his hands.

He wakes sweating and gasping and knows down to the marrow of his bones that he’s alone.

There’s a note on her pillow and he grasps it in fingers that tremble.

_Jon,_

_I haven’t loved you as long, maybe, but I should have. I should have._

_But I can’t keep running from my problems and I certainly can’t drag them into your life. You’ve suffered enough. I need to sort some things out for myself, I have to or I will never be free of it all. This isn’t good bye… I don’t expect anything from you, I hope you can believe me. Trust me, like I trust you. I’ll come back, once everything is settled, once I have my life back, and I’ll be yours if you want me. Body and soul._

_I love you, Jon._

_S_

 


	3. she watches the skyline waiting for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I gotta take this,” he mumbles, Tor waving him off, and Jon steps into the heavy night air. He draws in a deep cleansing breath as he answers.
> 
> “Hey, Arya,” he says.
> 
> “Jon,” is all she has to say for him to know something is very, very wrong. “Jon its Sansa…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The finale! Ugh, took me long enough.  
> Thanks to everyone for the comments and support. I hope you enjoy it.

“Well, Jon, what the fuck are you gonna do about it?” Tormund asks over the noise of the bar, setting down his half empty mug and leaning close enough to Jon that he can smell the beer on his breath. Tor has no sense of personal space. 

Jon grunts, staring into the deep amber liquid of his own glass, wishing like hell he’d never told Tor about Sansa. And he sure as hell shouldn’t have let him guilt him into coming out at all. He’s felt like a raw, exposed nerve since she left; the world too bright and loud without her in it.

“What _can_ I do?”

Tor snorts, the sound muffled as he downs the rest of his beer. “You go after her, dumbass.”

Jon, aware that the answers to his problems aren’t going to be found at the bottom of a chipped beer mug, finishes his fourth pint anyway. He’s never been much of a drinker –he’s seen far too many families torn apart by it, first in the Army and then at the station- but the booze is helping to take the edge off. It’s only been a month and a half since she left but it feels like a lifetime. Only the things she left behind, most of her clothes, her hair products and a pair of pretty silver earrings, convince him it wasn’t all some pathetic dream he concocted in his head.

“It’s not that simple.” Jon says, signaling the bartender for another round. But it sure is tempting. 

He can _feel_ Tor rolling his eyes. “Sure it is. You hop on a fucking plan, find her, and drag her ass back here. Or profess your undying love or some shit.”

Jon chuckles but it sounds humorless and dry even to him. “Brienne is a lucky woman, Tor.”

Tormund, begin Tormund, takes this compliment literally and beams, beer gleaming brightly in his red beard.

Jon is saved by his cell vibrating in his back pocket, and his heart immediately jumps into his throat as he pulls it out. Maybe… but no, it’s Arya.

“I gotta take this,” he mumbles, Tor waving him off, and Jon steps into the heavy night air. He draws in a deep cleansing breath as he answers.

“Hey, Arya,” he says.

“Jon,” is all she has to say for him to know something is very, very wrong. “Jon its Sansa…”

-

Jon’s only been to New York City once, shortly after his last deployment, a few months before getting out of the Army. Ygritte had met him at the airport and they’d stayed a few days, playing tourist. To Jon, it had been just another big, overcrowded city like a hundred other big, overcrowded cities. Now it feels like a living, breathing monster that Jon has to somehow overcome.

Arya is waiting for him near the baggage claim, a worn backpack dangling from one shoulder. He hadn’t brought anything but a backpack himself; blindly throwing random clothes together before getting an Uber to the airport. She’s pacing, arms crossed, the dark fringe of her hair gleaming in the too bright fluorescents. Relief is clear in her eyes when she spots him.

“She left me the message yesterday,” Arya says immediately, grabbing Jon by the arm and steering him toward the exit. She fishes out her phone with a free hand and fiddles with it for a minute before shoving it at him. “Listen.”

Shaking a bit, Jon presses the phone to his ear, heart lurching to hear Sansa’s voice again. “ _Arya, I know we haven’t spoken in a while and I know that’s mostly my fault. Don’t get me wrong, you can be pig-headed and stubborn… but you were right. Right about Joffrey, about my life, about everything. I-I left him, Arya, I want to get my life back, I want my family back. I’ve been staying with Jon in Chicago, he helped me get back on my feet… and I think, and well you’ll hate it, but I think maybe that he and I have a chance at something… but I need to sort out my life first. I-I hope you can forgive me… I hope_ -” her voice cuts out suddenly at the sound of a door slamming open and he can hear her sharp intake of breath. _“No…”_ she murmurs, and Jon can all but taste the fear and loathing in her voice. _“How? N-No, don’t touch me! Don’t you fucking touch-”_ there’s a scrabbling sound, a short cry of pain, and then silence.

“Jon,” Arya says quietly, shaking him gently, and he realizes he’s stopped dead in the middle of a busy thoroughfare and is breathing heavily. People are staring. “Jon, pull it together.”

“We have to find her,” he says, hardly aware he’s speaking. He gives Arya back her phone and dials Tormund on his own cell. If he doesn’t keep moving he knows he’s going to completely lose it.

Tor had called in a missing persons as soon as Jon had told him what was going on, relating to him what Arya had explained was in Sansa’s message. He’d gone full cop mode.  

“They haven’t found her,” Tor says gravely when he picks up, “But I did get a possible address out of them, got a pen?”

“Arya, take a note in your phone,” he tells her as they emerge from John F. Kennedy airport and into the madness that is New York City. Tor gives him the address and Arya quickly types it out, her hands shaking too.

“Be careful Jon,” Tor says meaningfully.

“I will,” he says, voice hard, as Arya manages to hail down a cab and they shuffle inside.

Jon gives the cabbie the address and tries to get control of himself, the sound of Sansa’s broken scream replaying over and over again in his head. God, if anything’s happens to her he doesn’t know what he’ll do. It’s just like Ygritte all over again. He’d failed her too, been too late to help her, to save her-

Arya takes his hand and squeezes, hard enough to hurt, forcing him to look at her. “We’re going to find her, okay?”

Jon nods, and there is murder in her eyes reflecting back at him. Today… today he chooses violence.

-

The police are already at the upscale apartment building when they arrive. Apparently Sansa and Joffrey had owned the penthouse on the top floor but, according to the police Sargent who meets them in the lobby, no one has been there in nearly a year.

“No sign of struggle and the doorman hasn’t seen either of them come in or out. We’re verifying with the surveillance feed, but this looks like a dead end.”

Arya scrambles for her phone as Jon processes this information, his heart falling somewhere into the vicinity of his boots.

“H-Here listen to this,” she says, handing her phone over, “Maybe it will help or something, I don’t know...”

The Sergeant listens to Sansa’s message with a grave face. When he’s done he waves over one of his officers. “We need to get more men on this, I’m gonna call the Captain and see what we can do. Make sure they comb the residence thoroughly, we’re looking for some clue, _any_ clue as to where whoever took her might have gone.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The man turns back to Jon. “Alright, I need you to tell me everything you know about Mr. and Mrs. Baratheon.”

-

Two hours later, Arya finds him in the alley behind the apartment building. He’d snagged a few cigarettes from one of the detectives and is working his way through the last one. He hasn’t smoked in years, but there’s a cynical sort of comfort in the taste; blood and smoke on his tongue, the sound of gunfire in his ears, the heat of the desert burning his skin.

She hunches down next to him in the dark, arms wrapped around herself. Arya had always been larger than life, her slight body never seeming quite able to contain her large personality, but she seems very small in that moment. He feels wrung out, drained.

“I-I didn’t know…” she says quietly, breaking a long stretch of silence and Jon huffs.

“Yeah you did,” he says darkly, leaning his head back against the concrete wall, then, to soften the blow, “We all did, at least a little.”

Arya nods, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. “You’re right… we all suspected. D-dad was so worried, he and mom fought about it a lot. And then… after the accident, I was just so _angry_ I-“

Jon puts a hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Arya, we just have to find her now. I don’t know what I’ll do if we can’t-” He breaks off, voice cracking and he presses his eyes closed. Her face is burned into his eyelids, however; it’s engraved on his very soul. Her smile, her laugh, the taste of her skin, they’re all shards of glass in his gut, cutting and slicing him apart from the inside out.

It’s just like Ygritte all over again.

Arya takes his hand and they sit like that for a long time.

Then, “So… you and Sansa, huh?” Her voice wavers and he smiles, it feels broken and sharp on his face.

“Yeah.”

“You did moon over her all the time in high school.”

Jon throws her a dark look and she chuckles a little, rocking back on her heels as she wraps her arms around her knees. “What? You _did_. Don’t think we didn’t notice. Robb tried to ignore it, of course, Mom too, but Dad…” she looks at him, dark eyes glinting in the city lights, “Dad hoped she’d end up with you, or at least someone _like_ you. He used to smile all, I don’t know, _soft_ or whatever whenever the two of you were together.” She draws in a shaky breath and looks away. “Don’t get me wrong, its super weird and gross but… I think Dad would be really happy she found you.”

Jon tosses his half smoked cigarette into a mysterious puddle nearby and pulls Arya into his arms. He can feel her trembling with suppressed tears, knows a few are leaking out of his own eyes, a dam only barely held at bay. They stay like that for a long time, two shipwrecked sailors, clinging to each other for dear life as the storm rages on around them.

-

“Here’s the name of a hotel nearby,” the Sergeant says, handing Jon a bit of ripped paper, “We got you a good discount.”

Jon takes it with a curt nod. “Thanks.”

The other man rubs the back of his neck, real compassion and regret in his eyes. “Wish we had more to tell you, but we’ll be in touch as soon as we know more, alright?”

Jon swallows against the terror and rage in his throat. “Yeah.”

He and Arya stand listlessly on the street corner, staring into the unfeeling, unflinching traffic, the city immune to their suffering.

Arya finally steps forward to hail another cab when a pretty woman in towering heels and a short blue dress descends upon them.

“Arya Stark?” she queries breathlessly, “Are you Arya Stark?”

Arya frowns, studying the pretty woman skeptically. “Yeah, who are you?”

The woman deflates in on herself. “Oh thank _god._ I’ve been going mad trying to get ahold of someone.  I recognized you from this picture she had in college. Anyway, I’m Margery, a friend of Sansa’s.”

Jon’s heart lurches, and Arya perks up, gaze sharpening to knife points.

“Have you seen her?” he asks, not bothering to keep the desperation out of his voice. Margery turns, eyes curious and assessing. There’s intelligence there, and cold calculation beneath an honest sort of concern.

“Not for the past two days, and she was supposed to come home after some meeting, I’ve been worried sick. She’s been staying with me while she handles the divorce.”

“The divorce?” Arya asks, trading a glance with Jon.

Margery frowns. “You didn’t know? Yeah, she came back to town to file for divorce, she had some lawyer friend she was talking to that she was sure she could trust, but _I_ wasn’t so sure… I’d heard some creepy rumors about the guy but-“

Jon snags her arm, startling her. “What’s his name?”

She blinks owlishly, caught off guard, and he immediately lets her go. She purses her lips, eyes a bit cooler than before. “Petyr Baelish, some big shot corporate lawyer type. Sansa said he’d been a friend of her mom or something, but like I said, there were some gross rumors about the guy.”

“Do you know where she was going for this meeting?” Jon presses, feeling as though he might fly out of his skin.

Margery bites her lip, thinking, “She said something about Brooklyn, and she wanted to visit some café or something after...”

“Do you know the name of the café?” Arya snaps, clearly losing patience.

Margery nods and pulls a pen and paper from her purse, writing it down quickly and handing it over to Arya. “Here. A-are the police inside?”

“Yeah,” Arya says absently, and Jon can see the plan forming in her mind, the same one forming in his own. They aren’t going to wait for the police.

They turn as one to grab a cab, Jon’s thoughts a torrent of rage and desperation, and Margery grabs his arm.

“You’re Jon, aren’t you?” she asks quietly, intelligent eyes sizing him up. He nods slightly, not trusting himself to speak.

“She told me about you… I’m… I’m glad she found you,” she tells him careful, shadows behind her eyes. “Please find her.”

“I will,” he croaks, and follows Arya into a cab.

-

They narrow down their search to three office buildings near the café Margery told them about.

“We’ll start with the closest one, alright?” he says, unearthing skills he’d hoped to never need again. He knows how to hunt people down, how to find them when they don’t want to be found. He could do this. He’d do anything to protect Sansa.

Arya nods and they hurry down the street, his heart a drum beat in his chest, forcing himself to focus, to not think about all the horrible things that might already have happened to her.

They’re nearly there when Arya stops dead in her tracks, face deadly pale.

“Arya, what-“ she grabs him by the arm, fingernails biting him through his shirt, and hisses. “It’s him, Jon it’s _him_.”

Jon follows her gaze across the street, eyes darting, until they settle on a blaze of gold. Despite the years, Joffrey looks basically the same. Pretty, slim, well dressed. Jon's almost halfway across the street, mind cycling through the various ways he might ruin Joffrey’s pretty, scowling face, when Arya grabs him by the arm.

“Don’t,” she hisses, tugging him back, “We need to follow him.”

Jon breaths in, trembling with rage and nods, unable to speak. They wait for Joffrey to round a corner before hurrying after him. He’s easy to keep track of with his gleaming, well coifed hair.

They don’t have to follow him for long. Three blocks later he keys into a business complex and Jon dashes forward, only barely managing to catch the door with his foot. He stands paralyzed, framed in the glass doorway, but Joffrey doesn’t bother to look back. He swallows and waves Arya forward as Joffrey’s footsteps echo up the staircase.

Together they slip inside and he presses a finger to his lips and demonstrates how carefully she needs to step. Joffrey whistles too himself, some vaguely familiar tune, conveniently masking any misstep on their part as they follow after him. Near the fifteenth floor of the clearly disused build, Joffrey finally turns and steps out of the stairwell, Jon and Arya hurry the last few steps to crouch behind the door.

Carefully, Jon half stands and looks through the small window in the steel door. A nondescript and deserted hallway stares back. There are no doors and the taupe carpet is old and stained; the whole building smells of rat piss and decay.

“Jon,” Arya whispers and he turns to watch as she fishes something out of her backpack. Jon goes cold as she frees it.

“Jesus, Arya, _what-_ ” she cuts him off, shoving an H&K P30 pistol into his hands.

“It’s Gendry’s, he gave it to me.”

The gun feels like a living thing as he wraps his fingers around it, suppressing half a decade of demons in the process.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Alright, stay close to me.” He’d rather she stayed behind but knows better than to say so.

He takes a moment to steady himself, recalling skills and training he’d hoped to forget, and quietly presses the door open, easing into the hall. Voices echo up the hall, muted and indistinct behind closed doors, originating from the left fork in the hallway. He presses himself against the wall at the corner and chances a glance. Another empty hallway with a single steel door at the end. The florescent light, dirty and old, flickers faintly every few seconds. The voices have grown louder. A woman’s and a man’s –no, two men.

He’s considering his best course of action, sorting through a library of possible scenarios, when Sansa lets out a heart wrenching scream and all he can see is red.

Jon busts into the room, the door hadn’t been locked, gun in hand. Sansa is tussling on the floor with Joffrey, both of them spiting and cursing, another man is slumping against the wall on Jon’s left, leaving a bright trail of blood on the wall behind him. He looks stunned as he touches the knife embedded in his chest. Jon doesn’t spare him another thought as he tackles Joffrey to the floor, the impact dislodging the gun from his hand.

The element of surprise wears off quickly and Jon only manages to land a single, solid punch to Joffrey’s nose, blood spurting, before a fist meets his temple and they’re rolling across the floor. The little prick is stronger than he looks and Jon is out of practice. Dazed, he remembers Sansa’s face that day on the pier as she revealed all her demons to him one by one. Rage gives him strength as he rips back Joffrey’s mop of golden hair and sinks his teeth into his throat, tasting blood. Joffrey makes a high-pitched squealing sound and pushes Jon away from him.

His high-end suit is torn, blood dribbling from his nose soaking into his blue silk shirt, and his hair is standing on end. Pure, unadulterated hatred radiates from his blue eyes and his pale face is flushed and distorted, made hideous by rage.

"You fucking freak!" Joffrey hisses, pressing a hand to his neck. "I'll fucking kill you!"

The sound of a gun cocking draws both their attention.

Sansa is trembling, but not with fear, no, her eyes radiate fury and disgust as she levels the gun at Joffrey who looks utterly shocked. She has a fresh bruise on her cheek bone and there’s blood soaking the front of her once green summer dress, he knows it’s not hers, it’s likely the blood of the other man slumped motionlessly on the ground, but it’s enough to make him want to strangle Joffrey with his bare fucking hands.

The sound of approaching sirens breaks the silence as Arya steps into the room with her phone pressed to her ear, murmuring muted instructions to someone on the other end.

“Sansa,” Jon says softly, but she won’t look at him, though tears well in her eyes. “Sansa, honey, give me the gun,” he presses, taking two short steps toward her. She shakes her head, her eyes never leaving Joffrey.

“He deserves to die,” she whispers.

“I know, love, I know,” he says, reaching her side but not touching her; he can sense he shouldn’t touch her, not yet. Her hands are coated with blood and God, he knows how hard it will be to wash it all off. “He deserves to be punished, but not like this, not at any cost to you, okay?” Death, killing, it always has a cost. Always. 

The sirens are blaring now as Sansa lowers her arm, tears spilling down her face. Joffrey immediately makes a break for it.

Arya began taking karate at age five, a natural brawler, and has been an avoid practitioner her entire life. She knocks Joffrey out cold before he makes it halfway across the room. She kicks him once in the face for good measure as Jon carefully pulls Sansa into his arms and the gun clatters to the floor.

She murmurs his name over and over again, burying her face in his chest as her slim body trembles with the force of her sobs. Together, they sink to the floor and he’s shaking with her; feeling as if he's coming apart at the seams. He’d come so very close to losing her. So very, very close. 

He presses his face into her hair and smooths his hands up and down her back murmuring comforting nonsense, so grateful he’d made it in time, so grateful he's not alone. 

-

_Two years later..._

Jon slams the door of the moving van shut and wipes the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

“That’s everything,” he announces and Arya breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief from below. He hops off the back of the truck with a chuckle as Bran and Rickon finish setting down the last few boxes in front of the garage; Gendry, Arya’s boyfriend, looks on from the shade of a massive oak tree sipping from a water bottle. Jon braces his hands on his hips, a light breeze cooling his face and neck, and takes in the house that had been like a second home to him.

It doesn’t look so empty and lifeless anymore, no longer a monument to everything they’d lost but something more, something better.

“It’s good to be back,” Arya murmurs, coming to stand at his side, and Jon is shocked to see tears in her eyes when he looks down at her. He’s never seen Arya cry. “This is where we belong.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, putting an arm around her slight shoulders. “Yeah it sure is.” It feels right, all of them being here, here where their lives began.

She lets him half-hold her for only a few moments before shoving him off with an awkward laugh, rubbing at her eyes and sighing.

Sansa appears then at the front door, one hand on her protruding belly. “Lunch is ready! But first, I want to take a picture,” she announces, and Arya and the boys all groan.

Jon laughs and snags Rickon, almost as tall as Jon at only thirteen, tousling his curly auburn hair as he tries to escape. “Come on, don’t upset the pregnant lady.”

Arya grumbles and hands her phone off to Gendry as they all gather in front of the house that had raised them. Sansa steps to Jon’s side –waddles, really, she’s only got a few more weeks till their daughter arrives- and he feels warm and ridiculous like he always does when he looks at her. She’s beautiful even with her swollen ankles and messy hair, skin glowing and eyes bright with joy. She beams up at him as Gendry starts snapping photos, ribbing Arya for not smiling, and leans in for a kiss. Bran makes a puking noise and Arya groans, but Sansa only smiles against his lips and throws her arms around his neck.

Jon eventually pulls away, resting a hand on her belly and feeling as though he might burst with happiness. “Welcome home, Sansa.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are lovely and so are you. :)


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